


Queen's Lane Coffee House

by LadyAJ_13



Series: Queen's Lane Coffee House [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Coffee Shops, Here be your University and Coffee shop AU story without the AU, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Slash, University, and they drink tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 01:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20283115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Peter works at Queen's Lane Coffee House on the high street. One blustery day, Morse falls through the door and out of the rain.





	Queen's Lane Coffee House

Peter wipes down his tables while staring out at the rainy High street. It has been a quiet shift, the weather keeping most people away, but those that did brave it have tended to drip everywhere and then linger much longer than their coffee level should strictly allow. Still, it was nearly over, and once he's battled the elements back to his flat he has a pork chop put away for dinner. Until then, teaspoon polishing. What a joy.

"_Jeez_!"

Peter looks up in surprise. A young man has fallen through the door, rain blowing in behind him. He knocks into the nearest table, umbrella inside out and catching on one of the chairs. "Sorry," he mutters, disentangling himself.

"No harm done," Peter smiles, with his best customer service expression. He stows his pad of paper and holds out a hand. "Would you like me to take that?" he asks, of the umbrella still flailing about.

"This?" The man wrestles it closed, the action leaving a little puddle at their feet. "Yes, thank you."

Peter takes the wet fabric gingerly and shoves it in the umbrella stand. He surreptitiously drops a cloth to the floor to wipe the worst of the rainwater away; the last thing he needs is someone taking a tumble when he only has - he checks the clock - twenty minutes of shift left.

The man settles into a chair, coat thrown over the back, and menu in hand. Peter takes the chance to study him. The café tends to get by on the same roster of regulars, but this man hasn't been here before. He looks young, but that could be because his hair is plastered to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushing as he thaws out. In addition to the umbrella, he carries a battered leather satchel. Peter frowns. One of those posh toffs then, despite the dishevelled air. Student or, maybe, low-level academic. "What would you like?" he asks, pulling his pen from behind one ear.

"Oh, tea please."

"Any food?"

"No thanks," he replies, though his eyes still roam the menu. Peter nods and pockets his pad again, heading over to stick the kettle on. While it boils, he rings up Mrs Henderson's tea and cake, and clears her table.

"Quiet in here," the man comments as Peter sets his teapot and cup down. Its hard to find a space, as he's covered the table in reams of notes, slightly damp at the edges, and a large leather-bound book that must have weighed his satchel down. Definitely gown, then.

"It's the rain," he replies, rolling his eyes at the man's understatement with his back turned; with Mrs Henderson's departure its just the two of them. His footsteps and the man's rustling papers echo in the empty room. He heads back to the counter for the little jug of milk and bowl of sugar cubes.

"I couldn't take another afternoon in the library." Great, he wants to _talk_.

"Mmm," he answers, edging one set of notes aside to make room for the milk and hoping he messes up whatever system the man is going for. He balances the sugar bowl on top of the book, obscuring the first paragraph. The man's penmanship is scratchy but Peter is good at reading upside down; it's something about Greeks myths, so not even anything useful. He heads back to the counter.

"Didn't start raining until I was halfway home, and any further I'd have lost the ink on these," he gestures ruefully at his notes.

"Right." Peter picks up the next spoon and polishes it vigorously before setting it aside and repeating the process. The man has a nice voice, he has to admit. Lower than he'd expect, looking at the drowned rat. But the last thing he needs is to spend the last - time check - ten minutes of his shift making polite small talk with an Oxfordite. He's been charming little old ladies all day, and all he wants is just to go home to a new episode of Variety Playhouse on the wireless and some food that doesn't come covered in sugar.

Blessed quiet. He looks up. The man is curled over his papers, pen flying, hair starting to curl at the nape of his neck as it dries. Freckles, thinks Peter.

\--

It is a busy Saturday morning the next time the man appears. He takes a seat in the window, facing into the room so the sun lights his hair from behind. He spreads his papers around as before, allowing a family to take the spare chair from his table, and pulls an old book close to peer at the text.

"Peter!"

"Yeah?"

"Stop wool-gathering and go take orders!" Mrs Pennyworth, the owner of Queen's Lane Coffee House, shoos him with one hand while pouring coffee with the other. "And then come back and take these over to Frances, will you?"

He takes two orders, delivers the coffee, and then wanders over to the man in the corner as he's run out of excuses not to. He has a pen in his right hand, and fiddles with it endlessly as his eyes scan his notes. "Tea again?"

He looks up with a pleased smile. "Thanks. And a cheese and pickle."

Peter writes it down. "What's your name?" he asks, carefully casual. He can be inventive with insulting epithets until the cows come home, but if the man is to be a regular he can't get into that habit in case they come out in front of Mrs Pennyworth.

"What?"

"Your name." He taps his pen on the pad. "So I know who it's for."

"It's for me."

Peter sighs. "I know, but we're busy today and if I have to call out your order-"

"Morse."

"Sorry?"

"Morse, my name is Morse."

Like code, he thinks, adding it to the top of the order. Weird. "Thank-"

"What's yours?"

"What?"

"Your name."

"Why do you need-"

Morse grins; a slow smile that grows until it illuminates up his whole face. He looks smug. He looks beauti- "It's busy in here today, if I need to get your attention-"

"Waiter."

"_Really_."

Peter shrugs.

"Peter!" calls Mrs Pennyworth. "Come wash these cups!"

"Thanks Peter," laughs Morse, as he turns to go. Peter scowls. Damn university folk.

\--

Suddenly, practically every shift Peter turns around and there Morse is, bedded in at his table like they run his own personal library. He sits in a corner, or in the window, and orders tea and the occasional sandwich. He stays just long enough that Mrs Pennyworth starts to get antsy, at which point he either packs up, or calls Peter over by name to get another pot of tea.

His presence _needles_. Peter feels his gaze like tiny pinpricks on his skin, but every time he turns around Morse is staring at his papers, or the ceiling, or on one memorable occasion the girl at the next table. She'd got quite flustered, and Peter had gone red trying to hold back his laughter at Morse's clumsy apology.

He's not sure why a gown is staring at him like that.

Okay, he is. It could only go one of two ways, and Morse doesn’t look the type to throw down and beat on townies because no one will hold him accountable. So it must be the other reason. The less... socially acceptable reason.

He also knows he looks back; it's the hair, and the freckles (they're everywhere; he'd noticed that day when Mrs Pennyworth had got the heating stuck on full, and most customers either switched to lemonade or gave up and went home. Morse rolled up his sleeves, a light sheen at his temples, and worked his way down his usual pot of tea as Peter slowly melted with his hands in tepid sudsy water). He knows what this hyper awareness means, but he also knows that nothing can come of it. It's not like a pub or a club, where one of them can tip the other a look and meet out the back and -

No. Besides, he hates the guy. He's a damned up himself gown who thinks he's better than everyone.

\--

"Looking forward to Christmas?"

Peter continues collecting plates, juggling those silly little cake forks that wouldn't feed a hamster and get lost in the bottom of the washing up bowl.

"I'm not."

He sighs and turns. Morse has his head propped on one hand, but for once that blue-eyed gaze stays focused on Peter rather darting back to the books. He shifts and moves the stack of plates from one hand to the other when he realises that means he was looking at him bent over the table. He clears his throat.

"Drinking, dancing and debauchery not your thing?"

Morse snorts, but there's little humour in it. "Hardly," he mutters. "Dreariness, drudgery and despair, more like."

Peter squints at him. "Lighten up Morse, its meant to be a holiday." He doesn't really have time to chat - and he doesn't want to either, he reminds himself - but he shifts the plate stack onto Morse's table and adds his sandwich remains to the pile. Morse snatches the crust back and stuffs it in his mouth. "Break from all this at least?" he tries, waving a hand at the usual mess of notes.

"Exactly," Morse mumbles through bread. "Four whole weeks without the library."

"Most people'd think that's a good thing," Peter huffs, and lets himself chuck Morse on the shoulder as he reaches for the empty teapot. The brief contact sparks. Morse shrugs, and suddenly Peter wants a cigarette. He wants to lean against the café wall round the corner, out of the way of all the Christmas shoppers, and share a smoke with Morse. Find out what dreariness and drudgery actually means, maybe see if he fancies a pint. Not that he'd fit in with the guys he hangs out with at the Lamb, but they could go somewhere else, have a proper conversation.

But Mrs Pennyworth is eyeing him from behind the counter, so he picks up the plates and stalks over to the sink to start washing. By the time he looks up again, half thinking maybe he'll slip Morse a slice of the fruit cake (season of goodwill to all men and all that), the table is empty except for a small stack of coins.

\--

Peter hands in his notice in the bleak days of the new year, when the sleet rains thick and the wind finds it's way through any tiny gap in your clothing. It's a terrible time to be leaving a cosy coffee shop and applying to be a copper; he'll have to suffer through training in the worst of weathers. The work will be physically harder, he'll be missing out on end-of-day freebies from the shop, and at least for the first year he can't expect to be bringing home any more dough.

But by the time he's out on the beat, it should be softening into spring, and he'll finally be moving _forward_ with his life. A career. Using his brain for something other than remembering the eight different cake options they have on display each day.

"You're leaving?" asks Morse.

"You heard that?"

Mrs Pennyworth is in the back; it's three in the afternoon and the floor is quiet, so she's left Peter to run it while she files his letter and drafts a replacement ad. He wipes a table that's already clean. Morse lays his pen down. "Yeah. What are you going to do?"

Peter hasn't actually told anyone yet. His mates down the pub – well, they're all labourer types, they already think he's a bit of a layabout with a cushy shop job, and leaving to join the fuzz? He's not sure how to break it. Mrs Pennyworth hadn't asked - she'll probably think to do so later, when the inconvenience has settled down - and who else is there?

"Copper," he grunts, eyeing Morse out the corner of his eye, but he just nods.

"You'll be good at that, I reckon."

He can't possibly know that - they don't know each other, not really - but the sentiment warms him, and he can't help the pleased smile that slips out. "I start training in three weeks," he adds, helpless against the excitement welling inside.

"Suppose I won't be seeing you around here then."

No, its not likely he'll be popping back to partake of a slice of lemon drizzle. But he thinks maybe Morse is saying more than that. Saying now or never, about this thing they've been edging towards and dancing away from in equal measure.

It's the worst idea in the world to take up with that now, about to start a career in the police force. And with someone who knows him, to an extent. Not just a face blurred by darkness and drink, but a name, a job history, a job future for that matter. Morse could ruin him, any time he chose, just by an anonymous note to the station. Rumours kill.

But he _wants_.

"No," he mutters, and scurries away.

\--

They don't talk after that. Peter avoids his table as much as possible, and Morse seems to receive the message. There's no more tingle on the back of his neck that says eyes are on him. No more discussion - brief as it was - about life outside tea and sandwiches. Instead, Morse buries himself in his papers, and Peter brews his tea and cuts his bread with more care than he takes for any other customer. A little apology, for the maybes and possibilities, the what might have been.

Until his last day. He'd wondered if Morse would turn up, but he hadn't expected this.

"Tea for two?" he asks, voice maybe a little strangled. Morse gives him a funny look, but the dark-haired girl at his side pays no mind. She orders cake for them both, one fruit loaf and one coffee cake, which he scribbles down because his brain suddenly feels a bit... tight.

"Thanks Peter," Morse says, as he walks back to the counter. He automatically starts making a cheese and pickle before checking his pad and realising no, it was two slices of cake.

Peter watches. He can't help himself. He eyes the mess of crumbs that Morse leaves and wonders if he's not hungry, or if he'd have polished off the sandwich he almost got instead, crusts and all, like always. When he collects the plates from their table its the first time in three weeks he's instigated an interaction. Morse's eyes go wide, and his hair is all fluffy from the howling wind outside, and his cheeks are pink, showing off his freckles, because Mrs Pennyworth has turned the heating up too high again. "It's my last day," Peter says, once the plates are in his hands and its that or walk away in silence.

"Yeah?" Morse smiles. "Good luck with-"

"So then, Morse," the girl lays her hand on Morse's arm to draw his attention. "Then she said that Colin just wasn't cut out for her study group! I mean talk about harsh..."

Peter drifts back to the counter. That's that then. Best thing for everyone, really.

\--

You could knock him down with a feather when Morse walks into the police station years later, not as a victim, not even picked up for... well, whatever reason, but a fellow _copper_. He tracks him with his eyes, notes the suit rather than the jumpers he'd favoured before. Still looks like a damned student though, rumpled shirt, wide eyes and hair all over the place - just now one trying to dress like his dad. No one will take him seriously.

But then Thursday - Inspector Thursday, the man _he's_ due to be bagman for – picks Morse, because of some history or some such, Morse beating him to the punch despite the fact he'd been freezing his toes off pounding the streets while Morse tucked himself up in a cosy exam room and prattled on about Greek gods of all things. And Morse glances at him, and there's a flicker of recognition there, but he just shrugs. And walks away.

Peter thinks of a coffee shop, windows steamed up, and a man with hair curling at his neck as it dries. “College boy,” he hisses, enjoying the way Morse double-takes, and scowls. The way he bristles, thinking of a comeback.

It's not the same. But that's for the best; it can't be like before, it can't have that undercurrent, not here. But Morse looks right at him when Peter sneers, and maybe he screws up his face and spits acid back, but his eyes are still blue and his voice is still deeper than it should be. And he'll take that. He has to. 

It's like that now.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Queen's Lane Coffee House is an actual place and opened in 1654 so would have been a feature in late 1950s Oxford. I've never been, so I've taken liberties with what it might be like - probably, its not as quiet and local as I've portrayed, but more of a tourist trap :)


End file.
